The Miller's Daughter (11 page)

No wonder, Emma thought, her father had refused to attend the funerals of both Josiah and his wife. Now she understood why.

There was silence between them now, the only sound the throbbing heart of the working mill. Forrest’s Mill. Emma was thoughtful. What had started as friendly banter between her grandfather
and the old Metcalfe brothers had become a bitter feud between her father and Josiah. But it was no longer about a man’s desire for another man’s wife; not now, not in this
generation.

Now it was all about Forrest’s Mill.

‘Jamie, did you know about this feud between our families?’

Her eyes, soft and dark as the midnight sky, tried to hold his gaze, but Jamie Metcalfe refused to look at her and turned away, muttering something that even Emma’s sharp ears could not
quite catch.

‘What? What did you say?’ She caught hold of his arm, feeling his firm muscles beneath her fingers. During the weeks since his return from the war, his body had filled out and his
superb strength was returning as he daily wielded the hammer, working long hours from early morning into the night to rebuild the blacksmith’s, the business that was now his. As she had
stepped into the smithy, she had seen the improvement at once. Now all the tools hung in neat rows. Tongs, pincers, pliers, the hammers with their differently shaped heads, from a small leaf hammer
right up to the heavy sledge hammer, all were cleaned and oiled. The floor was no longer littered with scraps of discarded metal and in the yard two ploughs she had not seen on earlier visits stood
waiting to be repaired. So, she thought briefly, new work was coming in now. The fire blazed so that even standing in the doorway, Emma could feel its heat and Jamie’s bare arms glistened
with sweat.

But Emma noticed all this with only half a mind, for today there was something far more important she wanted to talk to Jamie about. Under her hand she felt his muscles tense and he snatched his
arm away as if her touch offended him. She gasped and her eyes widened. Maybe his outward appearance was returning to normal, but his attitude, his treatment of her, was nothing like it had been
before he went away.

He turned to face her, the angry frown, which seemed to be permanently on his forehead, a deepening crease. ‘I’ve always known there’s been a bit of rivalry between your father
and mine, but I never realized, never knew, it went so deep. Not until a few months ago.’

Once more, Emma was surprised. ‘But you weren’t here a few months ago.’

Jamie nodded. Now his dark gaze met hers. ‘Me father wrote me a letter. A long one. He knew then just how ill he was and he wanted me to know a few things before – ’
Jamie’s voice sank deeper, ‘before he died.’

‘What
things
?’

‘He wanted me to promise to marry you when I came back from the war.
If
I came back.’

There was a strange note of bitter reluctance in Jamie’s tone that frightened Emma. She ran her tongue over her lips that were suddenly dry. In a voice that was little more than a husky
whisper, she said, ‘But that’s what we’d planned, wasn’t it? I’ve waited for you, Jamie. I’ve thought of nothing else but the time you would come back and
– and . . .’ Her voice trailed away in uncertainty.

Harshly, Jamie said, ‘He wanted me to marry you to unite our two families. It was only so that eventually our family would own Forrest’s Mill. Even from beyond the grave, he wanted
to carry on the feud. He wanted to die thinking that at least his son would one day own your father’s mill. Oh, he really spelt it all out to me. He put it in his letter. “I want the
whole village to know that at long last a Metcalfe will be the owner of Harry Forrest’s mill.”’

Emma gasped. ‘But that’s not why
you
want to marry me, is it?’

Her heart began to thud painfully as Jamie spoke again, words that were a death knell to all her hopes, all the girlish dreams she had cherished and nurtured through the long years of
waiting.

‘I won’t marry you, Emma Forrest. Not now. Not if that’s what people are going to say about me. That I’ve married you to get the mill. The whole village must have known
about this feud and that’s what they’ll say. A man’s got his pride.
I’ve
got my pride. I won’t be a party to my old man’s scheming.’

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘But – but I don’t understand.’ Then realization came to her and with it, a great sadness that was a physical
pain in her chest. ‘You don’t love me, Jamie. All that’s just an excuse.’ She fought to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes, determined not to let him see how his
words were like a knife through her heart. Slowly she shook her head and the lower lip of her generous mouth trembled suddenly. ‘You can’t love me.’

‘Of course I do,’ he argued angrily, ‘but it wouldn’t work Emma. Not now. Not knowing what people were thinking, saying about us. About me. It would eat away at us. It
would destroy us.’

She shook her head again, this time more vehemently. ‘Only if you let it, Jamie. Don’t include me in that statement because I love you enough to rise above any village tittle-tattle,
enough even to go against my own father’s wishes.’ She stopped but her unspoken words hung between them like an accusation. You don’t love me enough, Jamie Metcalfe, her silence
said.

As if unable to defend himself Jamie averted his glance from her steady gaze. ‘It wouldn’t work,’ he muttered again and turned away.

Emma watched him walk back towards the glowing coals in the fire of his forge. With savage ferocity, he worked the long handle of the bellows until the red glow became white hot. She stepped
back, feeling the heat growing too much for her to bear. But Jamie, close to the furnace, seemed oblivious to any discomfort. Emma waited a moment longer, watching him, but when he did not turn
round, did not even glance over his shoulder at her, she turned away and left the forge. As she passed beneath the brick archway into the market place, she heard the sound of his hammer striking
the anvil as he worked on a horse’s shoe, a slow, rhythmic clang, clang, like the tones of the passing bell.

It sounded to Emma like the death knell of their love and she covered her ears against it.

‘You know, Sarah, I really did think Jamie loved me.’

Sarah shrugged. ‘I’ve no patience with the lad. Y’know, I’ve always liked the Metcalfe boys, ’specially young William. But Jamie, well, I can’t believe how
he’s changed.’ She was quiet a moment and then, as if kindly trying to find excuses for him, added, ‘I ’spect it’s the war and coming back and his mam and dad not
being here anymore . . .’ Her voice trailed away, but then she wagged her finger in the air and said more strongly, ‘but it dun’t give him the right to treat you like this.
Mekin’ promises to a young lass and then not keepin’ them. Oh, dear me, no.’

Emma was silent, slowly wiping down the counter with a damp cloth, so lost in her own thoughts that when loud knocking sounded suddenly on the shop door, she jumped.

‘We’re closed,’ Sarah shouted. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’ But the knocking came again.

Emma sighed and went round the counter. ‘Evidently they either can’t read or won’t take no for an answer.’

She unbolted the door and opened it to find herself staring once more at a huge bunch of flowers and behind it was the merry, smiling face of Leonard Smith. Emma stepped back in surprise and, as
if taking that for an invitation, Leonard stepped across the threshold. He gave an exaggerated bow and held out the flowers towards her.

‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady. Would you do me the great honour, Miss Forrest, of allowing me to take you to the fair?’

For a moment she thought he was teasing her, making sport of her plainness, of her workaday clothes, her rough, work-worn hands. She opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, but when she looked
into his handsome face she saw that although he was adopting the pose of a courtly gent, acting a part almost, the question in his blue-grey eyes was genuine.

‘I – I – ’ she stammered, ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’

‘I’m sorry it’s been a while,’ he said at once. ‘I’ve been away – er – working, you know.’ His voice dropped. ‘But no, I’d not
forgotten.’

She felt a flush creep up her cheeks and she buried her face in the flowers, hiding her growing confusion from him. When she was once more in control of her senses she said, ‘Won’t
you come in, please? We’ve almost finished here. Please go upstairs, I won’t be a moment.’

‘You go with the young gentleman, lass,’ Sarah said. ‘I can finish here.’

‘Are you sure?’ Emma asked and then turning back to Leonard she said, suddenly strangely shy, ‘Please, come this way.’

As she led the way up the dark stairway and into the front parlour above the shop, the windows of which also looked out on to the village street, Emma was conscious of him following her closely.
In his fine city clothes, the white shirt and neatly knotted silk tie, a flower in his lapel, the gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat, she was surprised to find he seemed entirely at ease.
Placing his black hat and ebony cane on a small table, Leonard strode across the room, nimbly avoiding the conglomeration of old-fashioned furniture that crowded the parlour and held out his hand
towards her father, who sat in his easy chair before the fire.

Harry made as if to rise, but at once Leonard said, ‘Please don’t disturb yourself, sir. I only came to ask you if I may take Emma to the fair tomorrow afternoon?’

Emma held her breath, knowing what would happen next. There would be grumbles and mutterings about her wanting to go gallivanting when there was work to be done and then her father would shake
his head and say she could not be spared. Two farmers were due to bring their grain in tomorrow, she knew. There would be no visits to the fair for her.

To her amazement, Harry Forrest was smiling, ‘Well, I don’t see why not, young feller. Where is this fair then?’

‘On the sea front at Calceworth.’

Her father grunted. ‘Well, mind she’s back here by ten o’clock.’

Emma glanced at her father shrewdly. Oh, so that’s your game, is it, Father? Leonard Smith, son of Bridget, is an acceptable escort, is he? But then, she thought grimly, perhaps anyone was
acceptable as long as he wasn’t a Metcalfe.

The young man turned towards her and, with his back to her father and unseen by him, Leonard gave her a deliberately saucy wink. ‘Two o’clock tomorrow. And wear your best
bonnet.’

Emma forced a smile to her mouth. Whatever her father’s schemes were, they were not of Leonard’s making. ‘Oh, I will,’ she said brightly and, with a hint of rebellion,
she cast a glance towards her father and added, ‘I have a lovely new straw bonnet I bought on a market stall a little while back.’

As Leonard said politely, ‘Goodnight, sir, and thank you,’ Harry Forrest nodded and smiled and Emma followed Leonard out of the door to the top of the stairs to see him down once
more. Resting his hand lightly on the banister he said, ‘I’ll let myself out, Emma.’ He pointed towards the flowers. ‘You’d better get those in water.’ She
glanced down to see that she was still clutching the bouquet in her arms.

He leant forward suddenly and his lips touched her cheek, ‘See you tomorrow.’ Then he was running lightly down the stairs, leaving her standing at the top staring after him.

‘Where are you off to, Em, all dressed up?’

Emma whirled around. She had not heard him approach and the sound of his voice startled her. She was standing by the gate, her gaze fixed on the curve in the road around which she expected
Leonard to appear. Nervously she smoothed her gloved hands down the skirt of her costume. It was her best outfit, indeed her only smart outfit. Royal blue that accentuated the colour of her eyes,
the jacket fitted snugly to her waist and the skirt fell in straight well-cut lines to her ankles. A white blouse with ruffles at the throat and the straw hat completed her outfit. It was not in
the height of fashion, she knew. Indeed, it was the style of dress that had been worn before the war, but it was all she had. Her father allowed her no money to spend on new clothes and these were
second-hand, altered to fit Emma by the village dressmaker.

‘William! You made me jump.’ Then she smiled at him, knowing full well what effect her next words would have on him. ‘I’m going to the fair in Calceworth.’

His reaction did not disappoint her. ‘The fair? In Calceworth? And ya dad’s letting ya go?’ His tone was incredulous. ‘Why, I reckon the last time we all went to the
fair, your grandpa took us in his pony and trap. The three of us, do you remember? You, Jamie and me.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘Do you know, I’d forgotten that.’

‘He was a lovely man with children. By heck, that were a day.’ William shook his head remembering. ‘But d’you mean you’re going on your own, Em? If you’d
said, then I . . .’

At that moment, the rattle of wheels and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves sounded and a smart trap rounded the corner, the pony’s white mane rippling in the breeze. In the back, the
reins held lightly in his hands, sat Leonard Smith. He drew the trap to a halt beside Emma and jumped down. Ignoring William as if he wasn’t even there, Leonard gave a low bow and said,
‘Your carriage awaits, m’lady.’

Emma held out her hand to him, which he took and raised to his lips in a courtly gesture. Then, still holding her hand, he helped her up into the back of the trap.

He climbed in, sat beside her and took up the reins. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes, oh yes,’ Emma said, her brilliant eyes shining, ‘I’m ready.’

Leonard flapped the reins and the trap jerked forward. She turned to look back at William, raising her hand to wave to him but the smile on her mouth faded and her hand fell back into her lap.
He was staring up at her with a strange look upon his face. Anger, hurt, even despair – all were mingled in his gentle eyes. As the trap drew away, all Emma could do, was to watch the
diminishing figure of William as he stood, motionless, staring after them.

Resolutely, Emma pushed away the memories of a trip to the fair with her grandpa Charlie and the two Metcalfe brothers. Today, she would not even think about them, she told
herself. The carefree days of her girlhood seemed so far behind her now, even though it was less than four years since she had last gone to the beach with Jamie and William. So much had happened
since, so much had changed and those idyllic days were now like a long-lost memory. And the sedate walks along the sea front with the Metcalfe brothers, when she had believed herself to be so
happy, even they seemed staid beside the fun that Leonard Smith showed her.